Malibu
by DirtyMonk
Summary: GTA3. She appeared on the streets when the money grew thick in men’s wallets. Malibu was her name. And boy, could she make that money disappear. She was looking for someone in particular. Someone dangerous. Someone who was 'just small time'.
1. Malibu

**Malibu**

Her name was Malibu.

She appeared on a street corner a few blocks from Luigi's Sex Club 7, and word spread quick of the busty blonde carrying the mysterious suitcase. Nobody was really clear about how word got around so fast. Maybe it was her bright, blonde hair, which seemed to ride the wind whenever she let it down; or maybe it was the way her burgeoning breasts bounced from beneath that blouse each step she took. Who knew. But all was certain heads were being turned wherever those expensive heels clicked across the pavement.

On some nights, she is seen wearing a red, low-cut dress with fabric so thin, it seems to cling to her voluptuous figure like silk charged with excessive static. But tonight, she is seen with something different. She is wearing a mini-skirt high enough to reveal a tiny glimpse of her panties, along with a white blouse unbuttoned far enough to show off a solid line of cleavage. Over that blouse is a small jacket she would usually take off before pleasing clients with her irresistible assets. And if assets equaled liabilities plus stockholder's equity, then her assets meant the end of your financial equation. Which came to another point.

Malibu wasn't cheap, nor was she one to mess with.

She cleaned the money out of most men's wallets and left negating debts in their bank accounts. Taking her home was like starting a new drug habit. And once she got your money, it was hard to take it back. She had driven bullets through the heads of six men to prove her point; Portland had been stubborn during those moments. And Malibu never meant paradise whenever that occurred. _Although…_

When you were on her good side—and happened to be loaded enough to feed her economic desires—Malibu _definitely _meant paradise. Every dollar spent on every inch of that body was well worth her staggering price of admission. Unlike the other hookers lurking the Red Light District, Malibu had little things that made her stand out and easy to remember. Like that suitcase she always carried. Who knew the kinds of pleasurable devices she kept inside. It was all part of her surprise. _That_ was Malibu. She also had this mole on the corner of her face. It was a noticeable spot below her left eye, and it stuck out like a speck of mud on a clean sheet of paper. It always drew your attention towards her eyes—which were azure, like the bright blue of Hawaiian surf. _That_ was Malibu. Along with that, she had this body…this temple of curves and protrusions beneath clothes that always revealed some lace or satin wherever they were unbuttoned (or slit). Her body looked too expensive to be in Portland; it had more of a home in Staunton Island. _That_ was Malibu. And the breasts she had…those enormous pair of assets which seemed to swallow your cash and end your financial equation, was what made Malibu the prized nymph of the Red Light District.

And the Man had his face smothered in between them.

He tightened his arms around her waist and pulled her closer to him. The vast cushion in between her breasts accommodated the size of his face. From under the rough, lacy bra beside his cheek, he could sense the hardening tips of her nipples poking at the bra's cups. No wonder why they associated her name with paradise. Here he was in the backseat of his Mafia Sentinel with a valley of bliss right up against his face. Now this was something he needed…some nice rest and relaxation over some leather seating with an expensive hooker straddled over him. The grand he was gonna spend on this broad was beginning to show its worth.

A giggle stirred him away from his thoughts.

"Sweetheart, you've been at that same spot forever," she sighed, moving her hands toward her shoulders. She hooked her thumbs below her bra's shoulder straps and yanked a small tug. Her breasts wobbled upward. "Why don't you start with my top and come get your money's worth, _hmm?_"

The Man didn't say a word. He simply stared at the vertical trench inches from his face and brushed a quick smile. _So much for foreplay,_ he thought. And he liked foreplay too, but the broad had a point. He was anxious…and he wanted to release himself onto this endowed slut as soon as he could. That extra _25_ points of energy meant a lot to him.

His face dove back down and pressed into her, feeling the clean smoothness of her skin touching his rugged features. Her warm breath from above began to shudder, peaking in intensity to become yearning cries dabbing at his ears. In seconds, those mewing cries blossomed into adulterous moans. As he continued to rub against her, her moans nearly drowned out the jazzy LIPS FM song playing over the car's radio. His face continued to graze along the warm surface of her chest until it hit the rough edge of her bra cup, where he teased and brushed at it until a large pink node came peering out. Against his lips, the stiffened peak of her nipple bent and rolled around its base. The warm tip was surrounded by an aura of pinkness, and he left a shiny finish over it with the tip of his tongue. She sighed out a moan when he did this; he felt her fingers feeling his ears as they stroked his hair. He continued to play with the warm nib of flesh, enjoying its maternal softness, before taking it into his mouth.

While his tongue licked at the slippery nipple, he could feel his erection screaming from beneath his pants. This woman sure generated a lot of heat in him. Steam would be jetting from his underpants if his manhood was ever allowed to express itself. There wasn't any comparison to heat like this…unless he considered Catalina into this matter. But Catalina was a double-crossing bitch. Malibu, on the other hand, was more like an expensive fuck. A memorable one, really.

Her lips hovered over his ear and exhaled a soothing warmth against his earlobe. "_Sweetheart, you have that touch I've been looking for,_" she whispered, "_and I want that touch all over me._" She guided his hands up to the backside of her bra, where he quickly undid the straps to strip her from the top. As if they were restricted by a girdle of some sort, her breasts broke free from the confines of the bra and spilled forth into the Man's face. A bundle of softness flooded him. After tossing away her white garment, she embraced the Man's head and fell over him, searing through his lips with her hot tongue. As his lips pressed against hers, his hands filled themselves with the generous weight of her breasts.

They were more than a handful, all right. But there was also something peculiar about them. He felt around the underside of both breasts and came across thin bumps under each of them. Thin bumps…or _scars_ he was thinking. Twin scars on her tits. That led him to suspect something.

_Implants,_ the Man thought, smiling as his tongue coiled and looped around the tongue of this blonde beauty. Some things were too good to be true.

She pulled her lips away from him and began unzipping his pants. Once she pulled out his most valued organ, he felt the pressure rise wherever she touched him. It felt nice being touched by a hand other than his own. Her enclosed fingers stroked down the shaft of him while squeezing at various sections to engorge him with pleasure. What began as flaccid and unshapely soon became solid and defined, like thick iron. As her hand continued to rise and fall, her gaze met up with his. A glint appeared in those ocean-blue eyes. And it was followed by a foxy smile.

"Ever been down south?" she asked, hiking up her mini-skirt. From underneath the black skirt…in between her legs, the faint glow of white panties appeared. She crawled over him and sat on top of his pole, mashing it with white lace. From where she rubbed against him, he could feel hot moisture softening the area he touched. It nearly turned that part of her underwear into a sponge. Whenever she shifted over him, he could hear a faint _squish_ emanating from that very spot.

She brushed her wavy hair back and stared into him with a glowing pair of blue eyes. "I'm all yours, baby," she smiled at him, taking his hand. "All that's left between you and me is a little lace." She then pressed the flat of his palm against her navel—fingers pointing downward, and inched them toward the hem of her underwear. His fingers hit the elastic of her panties before boring themselves under. Beneath the lacy material, his contented little piggies combed over a partially-shaven portion of fine hair before touching a hot mass of moisture eager to let in what he felt hardening right below it. There, he wrapped his palm around the spot, allowing her juices to flow between his fingers. The voice of Malibu cried in his ears. In response, his right hand groped her breast…where he felt a stiffened nipple poke at the center of his cupped palms. My God, his single hand couldn't contain her immense size—it was just too much for one hand to take on alone.…

_What the…!_

She whipped something out from her suitcase. Something bright…like a large knife.

The Man reacted. His right hand leapt on his pistol—seized it—and raised it at his assailant. He thumbed back the hammer. A metallic _click _crunched from out of the .45 caliber handgun.

"Whoa _relax, _sweetheart!" she gasped, nearly dropping the white bottle of Malibu Rum. "I think it'd take a lot more than cracking a bottle over your head if I were to kill you—ain't that right, baby? Now put that thing away!"

He rolled the hammer back down and put the gun aside. How in the Hell did he mistake a white bottle for a knife? He sighed as he pulled his hand out of her panties. They had been under them the entire time. How could he let the past interfere with his enjoyment like this? Hmm. The Man was just being cautious. Any man would be after being sentenced to ten years because their damn girlfriend set them up. _Ten years for love_, they wrote. Fuck that. Not even hookers were safe from his paranoia.

"So sweetheart…you still wanna fuck or what."

The Man looked at her. He nodded.

She had taken off her panties and was sprawled over him, naked with that white bottle of Malibu Rum. She began sipping its noxious coconut flavor, while the menacing odor of rum filled the space between them. It mixed with the sweet scent of her hair and produced a mild aphrodisiac in him. "Pardon my drinking," she said, gently stroking him, "it's just something that helps keep my juices flowing, if you know what I mean." She then giggled. "So baby, where did we leave off? If you like, I can do some rather nasty things with this bottle..."

The Man had enough. He seized her by the waist and flung her against the passenger door. She gasped as her back thumped against the Sentinel's door. Her bust bounced wonderfully; they bobbed and warbled from their base. _Perhaps I should do that more often_, the Man thought with a sneer. With his callused hands, the Man then spread her legs apart and got on top of her.

Her calves rubbed against his back. "Ooh baby, I like it rough!" she giggled up at him. "All right, enough with beating around the bush—let's just fuck our brains out!"

And that was what he did.

His rhythmic thrusting shook the car, causing its springs to utter forth a heinous _creak-creak_. Inside, the prostitute known as Malibu groaned, panting as her thighs tightened around the Man. Her voice trailed through his ears in moans and desperate cries. She shifted according to his movement—an accomplice to his libido—and yelped whenever her breathing flared to new heights. Pain intermingled with pleasure, while reciprocation merged with penetration.

She began to scream, "_Fuck…Ooh…Yes!_" as her blonde, wavy hair fluttered and stuck to the Man's sweaty body. Those enormous breasts shuffled and slapped against his chest. Their movements were as fluid as water balloons, bouncing and nodding along his pelvic thrusts. Her erect nipples lashed at him. With the bottle of rum still in her hand, she clung to his neck like a possum hanging from a branch.

The pressure in the Man's groin began to reach extreme levels. Inside Malibu, he swam in her fluids, grinding against hot, lubricating walls. With each thrust, the engorging sense of pleasure increased for the Man, pulling him closer to the impending waves of climax. With this in mind, his rhythm increased, sending him sailing toward those inevitable tides. His hands seized her ass and squeezed at its tenderness until it drew an extra breath out of her. The car's shaking increased in tempo.

The Mafia Sentinel creaked without hesitation, rocking atop its wheels. Rain poured over the black surface of the bouncing sedan, drumming the roof in lieu of the action. The car's springy sounds echoed in the alley of the Man's safe house near the Red Light District. As the rain continued, so did the sensual grinding inside the car. The car moved in periodic intervals; it paused after each fifteen minute session before rocking again. It was only until the rain settled (and this didn't happen for at least another hour) did the car really cease to move. It laid still in the dark alley with its engine on. Inside, the couple remained on top of each other, panting in long breaths of satisfaction. Their breaths fogged up the windows of the sedan, creating a translucent haze over its windows. From behind that haze, shadows moved about as the two began to dress. A dark alley, a stolen car, and two people…these were perfect conditions to cultivate crime.

"I know who you are…" Malibu said as she threw her arms into her jacket. "You're that small-time crook who does errands for the Leone family. That hired gunman with the reputation for jacking cars."

The Man nodded and looked off at the window with his emotionless eyes. The Liberty City moon loomed large in the late night. How she knew about him, he had no idea. For all he cared, she probably used to work for Luigi and managed to eavesdrop on some rumors.

"You were the one that got set-up by your girlfriend," she continued, drawing closer to him. "Right when you robbed the Liberty City Bank, she shot you. She had you ready to serve ten years. _Ten years_…for love." Her blue eyes stared into him. He wanted to look away, but he felt the urge to return her gaze. This segment of the past she brought up made him uneasy. He could hear Catalina's voice cackling from the dark crevices in his heart. That Colombian accent he used to love goaded him on, twisting his mind with thoughts of revenge. His hands clenched into shaking fists.

_Sorry babe, I'm an ambitious girl and you, you're just small time. _

One of his fists punched the window, leaving a web of cracks over the thick glass.

A set of soft hands rushed over his bleeding knuckles and pulled them away from the cracked window. "But you managed to escape," the voice behind him spoke, "and now you're starting over, hoping to move up in the world. You want revenge, and you're looking for a shot at it through Toni, Joey, and the rest of the Mafia."

_I know who you are_, she had said. This was creepy because he sure as hell didn't know who she was, and this broad probably knew more about him than his buddy 8-Ball. And worst of all, he just fucked this creepy bitch!

His hand went for the door handle. He had enough of this Alfred Hitchcock bullshit.

"I know a way you can get back at her," she said, dropping a hand on his shoulder. "Catalina…isn't that the name, sweetheart? Catalina's the one who has been on your mind this whole time."

The Man froze. _How the fuck did she know that? More importantly…how the fuck did she know so much about _him

"The thing is, sweetheart, we've both been hurt." She turned the Man's head around by his chin and stroked the side of his face. "I know of a connection that could lead you to your Catalina, but I also want you to do something for me. Something that suits you very well."

The Man tilted his head and stared into her blue eyes. He took his hands off the car door. _This better be good,_ he thought, nodding at her.

"I need you to kill someone for me…" Malibu said, reaching for her suitcase. "Someone important, like my SPANK-dealing, ex-boyfriend. You see, he's your connection to Catalina, and I'm offering you 80 grand for his head." Like a clam, her suitcase popped open, revealing neatly-stacked rows of crisp bills adding up to 80,000 dollars. He thought about killing her to get to the money, but the thought left his mind once she drew a .45 caliber USP pistol at his face. She knew he was thinking of robbing her, so she packed some heat. Not bad for a hooker. But after experiencing what he just went through, this Malibu was definitely not the average street whore.

"So, do we have a deal or not?" Her aim never moved.

He checked the money, flipping through the bills to make sure he wasn't being ripped off. The money was legit. At first, the Man just couldn't get over the fact he was being hired by someone he just fucked—but in the end, he didn't mind the 80 grand. The connection to his old flame was an added bonus. He also thought it was rather cute to find a hooker using a gun to fend for herself. So he nodded.

And a wicked smile lit up her face. "I knew I could count on you, sweetheart."


	2. Don't Trust Her Lies

**Don't trust her lies**

His name was Emilio. Emilio Escobar.

The name sounded like some 90's actor, but the real deal had a lot more to do with SPANK than acting itself. Escobar had an important role in the Colombian Cartel as one of their top drug traffickers—in other words, he was another ruthless drug lord. And he was also pushing SPANK into the Portland district through the shipyards in the harbor.

Using methods undetectable by the Drug Enforcement Administration, Escobar managed to smuggle enough SPANK into Portland to supply the entire city. The funds he amassed from his operations made him a wealthy, powerful icon in the underworld. It also made him nearly untouchable. Everywhere he went, armed guards followed his confident stride and released submachine fire to anyone who so much as disagreed with him. The only way past the thick shell of this drug lord was to do both the unthinkable and the unpredictable. The Man was a master of these two traits.

He studied the photograph Malibu had supplied him the other night. Rugged features, a calm face, and a don't-fuck-with-me demeanor filled his eyes. Despite his ruggedness, Escobar had a rather clean-cut hairstyle; it made him look young while showing off a look that pressed itself against your face and cried: "_Colombian narcotics doesn't get any better than this!_". From a woman's point of view, he would have been the kind of man who could make a woman spread her legs with a lift of an eyebrow and some fingers poised beneath the chin. But the Man thought otherwise. From his own perspective, Escobar looked a lot better with a bullet shoved in his forehead, along with 80,000 dollars spewing from out of his mouth.

The Man parked his Mafia Sentinel at the Atlantic Quays near an obscure warehouse around the docks. Driving around here reminded him of that noisy broad Maria, in which he had to drop her off at some SPANK-infested rave that was near where he was parked. If memory served him right, it was because of that clap-trap he had to bust up Salvatore's Limo (Given the situation, it was either Maria—who was Salvatore's woman—or the Limo. Your fucking choice.) while he floored it from the cops. But memories were the past, and they were done for. Back to reality.

He leapt out of his car, gasping for breath; the noontime sun was turning the black Sentinel into one of those Japanese, World War II torture boxes. From there, he made his way to the front of the building and awaited for the appearance of a special blue car: the Colombian Cartel Cruiser.

According to Malibu, Escobar was located onboard the _Les Cargo_ freighter at the Portland Harbor. But there was absolutely no way of getting onto that boat alive with anything _but_ a Cartel Cruiser (it also complicated things when you were also _white_, cabron). And the blue Cruisers were nowhere to be found in Portland…unless you considered making a trip to Staunton Island or Shoreside Vale—but there was no way around that, since the Callahan Bridge was still being fixed.

So it came to this solution. At least several times a day, Escobar sent out a lone Cruiser to pack his SPANK into a warehouse at the Atlantic Quays. Every three hours, the car would make a stop at the warehouse, dump its payload, and return to the ship for additional loading. The last car had made its run at 9 a.m. sharp.

The Man glanced at his watch, smirking as it read 11:55. Just five more minutes before the next Cruiser arrived.

Once the car would show up, he was to steal it and drive it back into the freighter, where he'll improve Escobar's rugged looks with an Uzi round to his head (along with 80,000 dollars spewing from his mouth). He liked the plan; it made him do the unthinkable… and the unpredictable. Both were dual traits he excelled in.

His watch now read 12:05 p.m.

A gust of ocean breeze ruffled his hair. No sign of the Cruiser. The Man continued to stand there as sailors and homosexuals passed him by. He glared at a few of them while flicking a finger at their backs. If that car wasn't arriving soon, he was going to go off on another killing spree. Perhaps those Colombians were a lot less punctual than he last assumed. Malibu hadn't mentioned a thing about any of them being timely, so this was a matter of estimation.

12:20 p.m.

The faint shriek of seagulls began to reverberate in his head. And to add to the monotony, the shrieks were mixed with the sound of a payphone ringing from across the street. The phone had been ringing for the last few minutes without anyone there to pick it up. The Man ignored it, focusing on his mission. He kept his eyes darting from one corner of the street to the next, only to find cheap Perennials and Rumpos cruising the asphalt. He glanced down at the pavement and began kicking a sheet of newspaper that had been skidding near his foot for the past few minutes. _When was that Cruiser arriving?_

From across the street, the payphone continued to ring. At first, he managed to ignore the ringing without much difficulty—but right now, that ringing was beginning to sound a lot more enticing. He glanced at the phone sitting in the vacant lot. Something about this whole thing wasn't right…and he knew it. And that phone over there looked like it held some answers.

He walked up to the blubbering payphone and unhooked it, placing it against his ears. His eyes scanned around, making sure he wasn't part of a trap. Nothing peculiar happened, so he tucked his head in and listened. He breathed heavily into the mic, producing that snowy sound. He always did this so the speaker on the other line could identify him.

"_I know who you are,_" a deep, accented voice said. "_And I have important information for you. My name is Emilio. You can call me Mr. Escobar if you wish._"

The Man narrowed his eyes.

"_Some dirty whore by the name of Malibu has been looking for you. I know this, since word spreads like wildfire when some stupid undercover cop tries searching for the right hitman to kill some _malo hombre_ like me, eh._"

_Malibu…an undercover cop?_ the Man thought, drawing a breath. His eyes widened. How was this possible? And why would some dirty whore of a cop hire him to murder someone like Escobar?

"_You see, my friend, the police have begun an investigation of the incident at Callahan Bridge…and I believe their trail has led to you. Have you not noticed the recent up in police activity around you, amigo?_"

The Man spun his head around, surveying his surroundings with frantic, darting eyes. He watched as a squad car passed him—the officer glared at him from inside…with a walkie-talkie to his mouth. Paranoia at its heightened bliss. _Fuck._

The Man looked away. This wasn't making any sense. His police files were hacked during the incident—and along with that, they had assumed he was dead when the Callahan Bridge went up.

"_That isn't all, muchacho. They have sent an undercover cop by the name of Malibu to find you and bring you back to jail. She is posing as some dirty whore and is trying to frame you for murder. Why they are after me, I do not know. Perhaps the DEA wants me dead, and they are trying to kill two birds with one stone._"

His hand clenched into a fist. Why hadn't he suspected it earlier? Malibu…the busty blonde with the suitcase. The blue eyes with the mole below it. The one he fucked last night. He was being set-up once again—this time, by the law. Did history always have to come right up to you and tell you that it always fucking repeats itself!

The memory of Catalina raising dual pistols at him flashed in his eyes. Except this time, she had blonde, wavy hair, which seemed to ride the wind whenever she let it down. Right before she shot him and grabbed that suitcase, those azure eyes—like the bright blue of Hawaiian surf—pierced his gaze.

_Sorry babe, I'm an ambitious girl and you, you're just small time._

He struck the glass on the booth with enough force to shatter it. Bits of crystalline shards pierced the Man's knuckles; blood oozed from the wound, producing a crimson river dripping over the ground. He didn't feel the pain. Whenever he was angry, pain and remorse were the last things the Man ever felt.

_That fucking cunt. _

"_Lucky for me, I have found you first,_" Escobar continued, flashing an audible smile. "_And I also know you serve the highest bidder…after all, all you care about is money, I hear._"

_Damn right. _

"_I want this Malibu dead by tonight—no questions asked. I hear the price for my head goes for 80,000 dollars, my friend. That's a fucking insult, my friend—I cost much more than some chump change coming from the suitcase of some dolled up pig. Don't trust her lies, muchacho. She is full of more nonsense than a thousand pounds of South American donkey-shit._"

The Man nodded, straining his ears so he wouldn't miss anything.

"_While that disillusioned pig pays 80 grand, I'll mark her death for 200,000 dollars—that whore has insulted me enough. Go to her room in Hepburn Heights and shut her filthy mouth with a couple of bullets. Slap that senorita around if you have to. _Shegonna be sorry."

He put the phone back on the hook. _200 grand…_the Man thought, smirking. Now _Malibu_ was looking prettier with a bullet in her head (and this time, the money was spewing straight out from between her spread legs). He made his way back into his Sentinel, igniting its engine. Opera music, pouring from out of Double Cleff FM, soothed his rage, bringing him back into a state of control. The bittersweet music conjured a kind of Mafioso savagery from him. As he took off and cut through Trenton, the squishing of his tires against an unfortunate pedestrian sounded beautiful when mixed with the operatic voices from his radio.

As he roared in the direction of Hepburn Heights, his pager screamed, beeping out a long-winded message he failed to believe, let alone consider. The message read:

THIS IS MALIBU. ESCOBAR KNOWS YOU'RE AFTER HIM AND HAS SENT MEN OUT TO KILL YOU. MEET ME AT MY APARTMENT SINCE I BELIEVE HE IS AFTER ME TOO. 


	3. Don't Trust His Lies

**Don't trust his lies**

The Man held his pistol up by his ear and yanked the slide. As he let the slide snap the bullet in place, its mechanized _click_ left a malevolent smile on his face.

He filled his pockets with three magazine clips before grabbing his shotgun. Today's kill was gonna be made in _12_ seconds…with a _12_-gauge. The handgun was just there for a precaution in case things got complicated. His Uzi and AK would have to rest in his backseat for today. They will rest alongside his bat and molotovs.

Hepburn Heights was an active residential area in Liberty City, and the place never seemed to shut up with its noisy Diablos. A motorcade of their fire-streaked, Stallion cars lined the streets with their blackness; it looked like an oil spill whenever they arrived. One of them blared their horns at the Man, causing him to turn his gaze over to the driver's face. He glowered at the Diablo gang member.

"I'll show _you_ drivin!" the Diablo shouted. "You came to the wrong side of the hood, holmes!"

The Man drew his finger up at the thug in the car. He rested the barrel of his shotgun against his collarbone so the driver could see it as he walked past the car. He had worked for El Burro…and _this_ was how that endowed donkey repaid him? What a load of shit. He should have taught that Diablo driver a lesson in respect.

He made his way past noisy pedestrians and street thugs before entering the apartment complex. As he walked up the steps towards the third floor, his right hand tightened around the handle of his shotgun. For some reason, walking up these steps reminded him of that girl Misty he had picked up so long ago. That girl with the accent and the green outfit had been his connection to Joey. Now, he was back here with a more violent motive. Strange how things seemed to lead back to the beginning.

It was Room _324_. The Man stood before the door as still and emotionless as the door itself. The shotgun was dangling in his hand; the barrel was pointing straight down. All he had to do now was knock, aim, and pull the trigger.

_Catalina…isn't that the name, sweetheart? Catalina's the one who has been on your mind this whole time._

Malibu had told him that the other night. It was creepy, but it was clever. Undercover cops just knew how to pull your strings. They knew how to convince and deceive simply because they _were_ the drug dealers and hookers they posed as. The only difference was… they carried a badge. That was all. If that badge was lost, their cover was the only thing they had left. It didn't matter whether or not they were cops to begin with. They were already the criminals they posed as. _In order to catch a wolf, you must first become a wolf_. That was the philosophy behind the undercover cop. The Man had heard that from somewhere but forgot where it came from (it must have been from a great movie).

He pounded on the door. It sent a reverberating echo in the hallway. After a few seconds, he heard feet shuffling from behind the doorway. Then the twisting of three deadbolts, followed by the knob shaking to open.

And there she was.

She was dressed a little more conservative this time around. Her skirt sank down to her knees, while her blouse was buttoned up. Only the sight of her generous breasts remained; their size made her blouse stretch out tight, outlining the flowery lace of her bra beneath. Tiny bumps representing her nipples stuck out from the peak of her chest. The more the Man thought about them, the more he felt like changing his mind. But things had be done. And they had to be done _now_.

"Sweetheart! Oh, I'm so glad you're here! We have to—"

His fist sent her staggering back against a shelf. Glass ornaments and picture frames somersaulted. She winced as her hands went up to her face. Those breasts shook wonderfully; they bobbed and warbled from under her shirt. The Man stepped into the room and slammed the door. He cocked his shotgun.

And shoved the barrel down her face. He pressed the tip of the barrel against the mole below her left eye. The pressure of his force smeared her features and caused them to stretch…as widened blue eyes stared up at him. Her blonde, wavy hair was strewn everywhere. Too bad it was going to be red now. His finger moved to pull the trigger—

"_I'M AN EX-COP!"_ she screamed, shutting her eyes.

The Man's finger stopped before the trigger.

"_Whatever Escobar told you is a lie,"_ she strained from under clenched teeth. _"I'm telling you…he's sent men up here after us—if you even _think_ you're being set-up by me, you have it all wrong! Escobar has _you_ set-up!"_

He narrowed his eyes at her. Bullshit. He added more pressure to her face. He wasn't listening. This finger right here was going to move and—

"_Please, just _think_ about it, sweetheart…the blue would be all over your ass if I was a cop. Why would I just lie here? Shit, just think about it! Okay…okay, so Escobar isn't really my ex-boyfriend—I just wanted you to kill him! Look at this gun I have! I would've pulled this on you by now!" _

The Man looked down her waist and noticed the gun tucked under the hem of her skirt. Her hands had been free the entire time, and that Heckler & Koch USP sidearm had remained there. Was she telling the truth? Or was she simply pulling some clever trick to win his trust and then shoot him afterwards?

_Don't trust her lies, muchacho. _

He grunted, stiffening his arms. The shotgun shifted as he did that, and it yanked a shuddering scream from out of her throat. The sound made his trigger finger twitch. She kept her eyes closed, gasping for breath. Shit, she looked like a frightened little schoolgirl.

"_T-those men are… g-gonna be up here s-soon,"_ she quavered, sniffing. _"And o-once they're here…they're not gonna care if I'm dead or n-not…since they'll be after you too."_

Why was he listening to her…

(_She is full of more nonsense than a thousand pounds of South American horseshit._)

Or…was she? 

(_Escobar knows you're after him and has sent men out to kill you.)_

Just _shoot_ her!

(_I know a way you can get back at her. Catalina…isn't that the name, sweetheart?_)

But, what if… 

(_They have sent an undercover cop by the name of Malibu to find you and bring you back to jail.)_

Jail? Like _hell_ was he going back!

(_Ten years…for love.)_

_How about this, muchacho! _

(_Ten years…for being gullible._)

_Anything except for being gullible._

The Man pulled the trigger.

The shotgun leapt back at him, pounding at his abdomen with its recoil. The shot exploded from out of the barrel and dispersed its lead bearings through the air. A flash of flames followed the 12-gauge assault. It traveled horizontally through the room, spinning at speeds beyond the eye's reach…

And struck the chest of a Colombian standing at the doorway.

"_You gonna be sorry!_" the dying South American screeched. Blood spilled from the side of his mouth. He reeled back with his Uzi and squeezed the trigger at the Man.

A puffy-sounding _puph-puph-puph-puph! _filled the air. The Man dove behind a couch as the wall opened up and spewed white dust around him. The glass ornaments on the shelf shattered, throwing glass shards in multiple directions. Splintered holes lined the boards on the shelf. The Man crawled up, crouched against the couch, and shifted his ear towards the doorway.

Echoing footsteps entered the room, followed by bits of incomprehensible Spanish. The Man made out a lot of "to kill" verbs attached to nouns that sounded like "gringo". He also heard a gagging voice struggling to speak as it choked in its own blood. The Man peered from the corner of the couch and watched as two furious pairs of eyes from beside a bloody finger turned to meet his gaze.

"_You want the chainsaw, gringo?_"

He spun back. 9mm bullets ripped through the fabric of the couch. Cotton strands whirled about. The Man felt a bullet whistle past his ear. He ducked his head low and cocked the shotgun…waiting for three seconds before hurling his body out from the side of the couch. He squeezed the trigger.

Flames licked from the tip of the barrel as the 12-gauge roared. A shot struck one of the gunman's knees, shattering it wide open with spinning bone fragments and splashing blood. A scream bawled across the room. The Man pumped the handle back and fired again—while an empty shell danced around him. The Colombian flew back with multiple holes blooming from his chest. He crashed over a coffee table. Glass fragments came up and rained over the gunman's face. His bloody face was locked in a scream, as a sharp edge from the table speared its way out of his neck.

The Man shifted his eyes on the other gunman. He had been too focused on the first one to notice the other roll out from behind the kitchen counter with one of those Ingram Uzis pointed at him. His leather jacket suddenly ruffled. Bullets thudded against his chest, knocking the wind out of his lungs. The force of the lead expenditures slammed him back against the floor. He fell on his back, coughing blood. The dazed Man then found himself wheezing up the hollow barrel of a MAC-11 Uzi…held by a member of the Colombian Cartel. He stared down at the Man with eyes glowing with white fury.

"You _brave_, big man? There is _no problem_ to kill you!"

The Man sighed.

Gunshots rattled the room. It stung the senses and surged a throbbing pain in the heads of its listeners, like a sudden explosion. The room lit up as the sounds progressed, and the speed of several bullets flicked blood at the wall. What began as a clean slate of white plaster immediately became a red-speckled display of a bloodstained wall.

Blood poured from the mouth of the Colombian. A ghastly exit wound gaped from his forehead, while several more were strewn across his chest. The fingers wrapped around his Uzi grew limp, allowing gravity to pull the silver weapon towards the floor. It clacked on the hard tile before remaining still on its side. And like a domino, the gunman tipped over…falling over to reveal the stunning figure of Malibu standing behind him.

She fell to her knees, sinking lower until her legs formed an _M _on the floor. Smoke slithered from the tip of her .45 caliber handgun. Beside her shins, a handful of brass casings rolled across the floor. She drew in heavy, laborious breaths as her azure eyes glared at the Man, watching his every move with narrowed eyes. She remained silent.

The Man grunted as he sat up. He felt at the armor beneath his jacket and winced. Flattened lumps of lead clattered on the floor. He had been lucky. If the bullets struck his head, things would have been very different. And he owed a portion of his luck to Malibu.

She raised her gun at him. "Look…_sweetheart_," she said with a morbid glint in her eye. "I no longer have the patience—or the _sanity—_to prove anything to you right now. Either you agree to help me get out of here, or you're gonna be joining these dead Cartel in Hell." She then cocked her gun. "Your choice."

The Man thought about it as he wiped the blood from his mouth. He had nothing else to lose; the Colombians were already after them, and Escobar has proven his guilt by setting him up. And the Man didn't like being set up. Whether he liked it or not, he was stuck with Malibu—the ex-cop hooker, whom he screwed the other night. The idea almost seemed like marriage…

"Oh, and in case you're wondering about your money," Malibu said. "It's stashed in a garage somewhere, and if you want to know where it is, you're gonna have to help me find Escobar."

And _that_ was the ring which held them together…

The Man took his shotgun and stood up, brushing dust off his jacket. He walked to where Malibu sat and stood over her, staring down at the gun pointed at his head. He paused for ten seconds…before taking her arm to hoist her up.

"Never knew you were such a gentleman," she scoffed while getting up to her feet. "If you'd been this nice before, I would have given you _real_ orgasms last night."

The Man glared at her, narrowing his eyes. He cocked his shotgun.

Malibu smiled, wiping at the indented ring on her face caused by the tip of his shotgun. "Now we're even."


	4. The Getaway

**The Getaway**

They started down the stairs once commotion began to gather around Malibu's room. Chatter permeated the walls, giving the apartment a ghastly voice of stirring echoes. Amongst the babbling, the building's phone lines erupted with activity…with every line heading straight to 9-1-1. In a matter of minutes, the police and emergency technicians would arrive.

The Man peered from around a corner with the shotgun firmly held in his arms. The first floor hallway was devoid of people. The emptiness gave the walkway an eerie silence, as dim fluorescent bulbs produced shadowy shapes in the corners. Oblivious to this, the Man appeared in the hallway with Malibu behind him.

"Escobar would send more than just three men…" Malibu said, turning to look behind her. "It's just not him to end it there."

The Man acknowledged what she said, turning his head to check and make sure she hadn't fallen too far back from him.

They continued down the hallway, approaching the brown double-door ahead of them. From behind the translucent glass on the door, the afternoon sun shimmered, lighting the dark corner of the hall. The Man stood near the door and pressed it open, inching it out to form a crack. He squinted and looked outside.

Blue 4x4s scattered the road around Hepburn Heights. Blue 4x4s, meaning…blue _Cartel Cruisers_. They were approaching the apartment complex, growing larger as they neared. A couple of them stopped just outside of the door. Their doors burst open.

The Man shut the entrance and backed away, urging Malibu to do the same with swaying gestures from his chin. She nodded and stood behind him.

A few seconds later, footsteps shuffled from behind the doorway; shadows appeared over the light beneath it. Deep, accented voices seeped past its wood. The voices grew louder, increasing in volume, until…

The double-doors opened…revealing three armed figures.

The Man pressed the shotgun against the startled face and pulled the trigger. The gunman's head burst open in an ocean of redness. The shotgun roared as it kicked back at the Man, violating his ears like it did before. Pieces of the Colombian's head were swept back in a rushing, midair tide. The bloody mass carrying chunks of tissue slapped against the faces of the men standing behind the gunman, blowing off their hats with blood. The both of them staggered back with their faces laced in red.

Before a word—or a scream—could exit their vocal cords, cracks from Malibu's pistol sent one of them falling back. With each gunshot, a large, darkened hole exploded from his face. With three bullets…the lower section of a jaw shattered, an eye was reduced to red mush, and a nose crumbled to cartilage bits. The faceless corpse slammed against the ground, creating a light _squish_ as the blood-soaked head contacted with the concrete. The air was beginning to reek of blood.

The Man drove his fist through the last gunman's face, causing him to groan as he fell back. He landed with a thud on the floor. While he helplessly laid flat on his back, the Colombian gasped as the Man cocked the shotgun and aimed down at his crotch.

_Give Escobar his regards…in Hell_, the Man thought.

The shotgun mutilated his groin. Nothing…except for the splotches of blood on tattered clothes remained in between his legs. They left him alone screaming as he curled and wriggled with his hands cupping his groin.

From the distance, a pack of Escobar's men charged after them. Submachine gun fire whizzed past their ears; they left wispy trails in the air and produced stingy _twangs_ as they ricocheted from building walls. The both of them rushed in the direction of the parked Mafia Sentinel, ducking their heads low like a couple running for cover from a rainstorm.

The blackness of the Mafia Sentinel shook in the Man's eyes as it neared them. Gunshots echoed behind them; the sound dissipated under the urban ambience. Bullets struck the car and littered the aluminum surface with silver-rimmed holes. Sparks flashed from its doors. The Man grabbed and yanked the driver side door open, wrapping his arm around Malibu's waist. He flung her inside.

"Tough _Yankee_ boy!" faint voices called from behind him. "Run…or _die!_"

He ducked into the car and slammed the door. As he ignited the engine, spider webs appeared over the window as bullets struck the glass. He rolled down his window.

"What are you doing!" Malibu cried, lowering her head. "They'll hit us!"

The Man tossed his shotgun in the back and grabbed his Uzi. He racked the slide and stuck it out of the window, pointing it sideways in the direction of the Colombians. He kept his eyes forward as he did this, paying no attention to aim the weapon. At that same moment, he put the car in reverse and stomped on the gas pedal.

The car screeched, darting back. The Man squeezed the trigger and sputtered a 9mm fury at their assailants. One of them shook as parts of his body burst open in bright sprays of red; he fell to his knees, spewing blood from his mouth. As the car rolled back, the Man swept the rapid fire across the row of Colombians, creating a mini-massacre. One by one, each of them fell to the drive-by…with blood trickling from their dead bodies. The Man then shifted the transmission and gunned the engine.

Opera music wailed from the Mafia Sentinel, blending the violence with the bittersweet melody…like a demonic acid trip. White smoke curled from the spinning tires; it whirled out and thinned in the air while the black rubber spun out. Seizing hold of the concrete, the black sports sedan took off, gaining speed in the direction of several parked Cruisers. Its engine rumbled from under the black hood, giving the car its needed torque. As it blurred past the parked Cartel Cruisers, the blue 4x4s began to move, dashing to tail the black sedan with relenting malice. The pursuit was on.

_Who was this guy_.

That was the dominant thought flashing through Malibu's head as she stepped in (or…was thrown in!) her stranger's car. The guy was loaded with weapons (mostly illegal) in the backseat. She counted stuff which looked like a stolen police shotgun, a MAC-11 submachine gun, an AK-47 assault rifle, bottles of molotov cocktails, hand grenades, Colt .45s, as well as a bloody, wooden bat. And she thought she had heard enough of this guy to know him. He owned enough weapons to level a city block! The car had definitely changed since last night; most of these weapons had to have been in the trunk while she was running her gig with him.

As their car swerved onto the road, she could see Escobar's Cartel Cruisers growing in size from the rear-view mirror. The chase didn't seem to bother her driver—in fact, in addition to making him drive better, it brought out some homicidal tendencies. They plowed through numerous pedestrians in the street…tossing up screams in the air followed by bloody squishes under the car. An old woman rolled off of the hood and bounced from the roof. Malibu could hardly keep her eyes open from watching her driver run over these innocent people as if he were playing some violent video game. I mean, this wasn't some goddamn _Pogo the Monkey_ computer game for crying out loud—this was real life! And in real life, peoples' lives really mattered!

From the corner of her eyes, his hand dove for the handbrake.

The car jolted, swaying her body against the passenger door. He was taking a turn—a tight, 90-degree turn. She gasped as her body thumped against the car's interior. Car chase or not, this guy drove like a maniac! Skidding tires screamed in her ears, mixing with the roar of the engine. Buildings around them spun in a blurring rotation. As they swerved inches away from cars on the opposite lane, honking horns blared at them from all directions. A cab driver threw his fist out of the window, yipping at them

"_Hey moron! You call that driving!_"

They were now near the closed subway station surrounding Saint Mark's and the Red Light District. He had swerved onto another road—into the direction of oncoming traffic. Bobcat pickups and Kuruma sedans honked and swerved out of their way, spinning out and smashing into other cars. Their pursuing Cartel Cruisers shifted from right to left, narrowly avoiding the fishtailing vehicles. The four blue cars continued to race after them unscathed. They closed in.

Malibu grit her teeth as she watched the 4x4s narrow their distance. Menacingly large grills hovered around the back bumper of their car. They threatened to ram it and send them twirling out of control. And when that happened, all she thought of was Escobar's ugly face thrown back, laughing at the acknowledgement of her death. She had to do something.

She thumbed the magazine catch on her handgun and released the clip, replacing it with the fresh one in her jacket pocket. She slapped the clip up the butt of her Heckler and Koch USP. If .45 caliber bullets were what they wanted, so be it.

The man glanced at her while she rolled down her window. A perplexed expression appeared over his face. It lingered in curiosity…before melting to a malevolent grin.

He slammed the brakes.

The Mafia Sentinel squealed as the entire world shifted forward. Their pursuing Cartel Cruisers went from merely gaining on them to zooming into them. Malibu's head was slung forward as the car braked—her forehead dove down and nearly struck her knees.

From behind them, a steel grill expanded in the window, growing in size before jolting the car in a violent shudder. The sound of slamming metal followed, cracking the back window as rear portions of the Mafia Sentinel crumbled like aluminum foil. The car's trunk dented inward while the taillights shattered. Malibu's head was slung once again—this time, she swung back and slammed against her seat. The collision didn't seem to bother her driver. Following the impact, the large grill behind them backed off and swerved away.

Two of the four cars passed them by. A pair of Cartel Cruisers rushed passed them on each side while the other two remained in pursuit. The man put his foot on the gas pedal and sped up to the cars ahead of them. He caught up to the blue truck, pulling up adjacent on its left side. Malibu's opened window now faced the 4x4's unsteady driver.

She brought her pistol up with both hands, aiming while the car loomed by. She lined her sights over the Colombian driver's head.

She pulled the trigger. A frosty-rimmed hole burst from the 4x4's window. The driver shifted his head away from the missed shot. She traced his movements, keeping her sights over the figure behind the window…and let off three consecutive shots. Additional holes surrounded the first one, splashing blood against the window from inside the car. The driver's head grew limp and disappeared within the 4x4's interior. From behind the dead driver, a shadow raised an Uzi at her. The Cartel Cruiser's windows shattered.

A flurry of bullets punctured the Sentinel, throwing sparks from the side. She ducked her head and stuck her gun out the window, rapidly pulling the trigger at the adjacent car. The continuous roar of her handgun mixed with the sputtering gunfire of the Uzi. "Son of a bitch!" she screamed, squeezing off additional rounds. "There's one more left in that car!"

From beside her, the man didn't even flinch from the missing the bullets. He simply raised his Uzi and fired.

She yanked her arm back into the car and clamped her hands to her ears, shutting her eyes. His submachine gun was inches away from her face!

A continuous, ear-splitting string of thuds rang in her ears. Even with her hands over her ears, the muffled gunfire was deafening. Her enclosed eyelids throbbed. She felt the hot casings hit her face as they cascaded from the top of the Uzi like a fountain. They scalded her face wherever they touched, landing over her lap to produce a messy pile.

With her hands still on her ears, she heard a muffled groan echo from the distance, and she played the image in her mind. Her man was squeezing the trigger, encircling the Cartel Cruiser's surface with holes before tearing up the frantic gunman inside. The bullets pierced the Colombian's chest, exiting from out of his back with mini explosions goring up the window behind him. At least that's how she imagined it.

Skidding tires screeched in her ears. She rose her head up to look.

The Cartel Cruiser swerved and struck an oncoming Perennial station wagon. It tipped over…wobbling on two of its left-side wheels for a moment before tossing itself to tumble into the street. It rolled across the asphalt, bouncing like a tumbleweed while spewing glass bits; the jostling impact shoved open its doors and ripped them apart in sheets of twisted metal. Flames ignited from its engine.

One of their pursuing Cartel Cruisers rammed into it. The battered car detonated. The red-orange burst blew the other car away, veering it off the road with flames wallowing from its hood. The flaming car plowed past lampposts and fire hydrants, ripping them from the sidewalk. While water sloshed into the air, yelping pedestrians flew from the Cartel Cruiser's hood. The barbecuing car then smashed head-on through a liquor store and exploded, taking out the rest of the building with a mushrooming mass of searing heat.

The pursuing car behind them swerved from the fiery explosion, screeching past honking cars driven by scolding drivers.

"My husband will KILL you!" a weary voice cried from a lowly Perennial.

Malibu spun her head around, biting her lip. "Now that's prohibition for you."

The man grabbed her hand and propped it over the wheel while staring down at her with eyes which seemed to say: "Drive."

She nodded and switched places with him, wrapping her fingers over the wheel as she crashed down on the driver's seat. There were two Cartel Cruisers now—one in front and one behind. She was wondering what the guy was doing until she noticed him rummaging through his stash of weapons in the back. He pulled out an AK-47.

The Man loaded the assault rifle, making sure his clip was full, and stuck himself out of the window, facing the rear. Rushing air blew at the back of his head, ruffling his black leather jacket to give it some animation. He spotted the Cartel Cruiser behind them; the blue car continued to weave past traffic in hopes of reaching them. The AK-47 felt thick and heavy in his arms; it was like cradling a soggy log from the sawmill, but the power nearly made up for most of its inconvenience.


	5. The Handyman I

**The Handyman (I)**

He was known as "the Handyman".

The pseudonym began as a nickname from an old employer, back when he had worked for the Yakuza. His former employer's name was Asuka—and he'd admit…her constant usage of that nickname had been annoying. But as time drew on, and his loyalties changed, the nickname became the only way of identifying him. Whenever somebody needed a dirty deed done—whether it be from the South Side Hoods or the Yardies, they called the Handyman. Just a brief phone call and a simple transaction was enough. The Handyman was not a complex man to deal with.

His eyes squinted open to the afternoon sun over Staunton Island. The sun's rays were bursting through the closed blinds, leaving a gold-tinted shadow in the room. The Handyman looked around, realizing another day had begun, and rolled out of bed.

The streets near Belleville Park were teeming with Cheetahs and conventional Stingers. The Handyman knew, since this was what he saw once the window blinds made him squint before the afternoon glow. The Liberty City sunlight lit up his entire room and reflected itself from his collection of firearms, giving them a bright, yellow gloss over their metallic surfaces. Which weapon he was to use today would be the ultimate question.

**Tessa Simone**

**The Handyman (II)**

**Conflict of Interest**

**Epilogue**


	6. FAQ

**Ending FAQ!**

**5/14/05 –**

First off, yes, this story isn't finished, (I know, WTF!) and it will never be thanks to laziness and a tendency to move on after letting something like this slip for a couple years. I apologize to anyone who has read this far, but the truth is, this story's been sitting in my hard drive for over 3 years without having been read by anybody but myself, and I'm too indifferent towards it right now to continue with it. However, I do know how it ends, and I can at least take the time to summarize how the story should have turned out. All for you, the frustrated reader.

After reading over my notes for this story following a couple years of abandoning it (I started it on February 14, 2002), I realized that it would be so wrong if I didn't at least tell you what happens at the end, since I wouldn't like it too if I were left in the middle of an action scene dying to know what'll happen to Malibu and her silent friend. Although, I have no desire to go back and finish the story since it has been a long time. It's like trying to bake a cake when you've stopped at mixing the batter and left it sitting on the counter for a week. Sure, I could try to add water and remix it or use some other method of reanimation, but the passion and urge isn't there anymore for that particular cake, and so says the same about writing. A story that isn't touched for more than a year for me is officially abandoned, given the kiss of death, so to speak. So basically, if I haven't gone back into it in more than a year, then it's over.

Anyway, for those who have read Malibu and want to know what happens at the end, I've put together a basic summary of the remaining plot as outlined in my notes, and I'll organize it in the same way as an FAQ.

**So what happens after they're being chased by the Columbians?**

Eventually, like all cars in GTA3 after they've taken enough damage, those infamous flames start licking from under the hood, and it comes time to bail the fuck out of that car! So the Man and Malibu (after gunning down some of their pursuers with an assortment of weapons) runs from the exploding car and ends up in the Red Light District. They are still being followed by Escobar's men and decide to find some sanctuary in none other than Luigi's Sex Club 7. The Columbians follow, with Uzis in hand (which isn't a very good idea, since the Leone family already has a problem with the Cartel for dealing all of that SPANK on their turf).

Inside the strip club, Malibu blends in perfectly, giving the Man a lap dance to help camouflage themselves. Furious, the Columbians start manhandling Luigi's girls when they can't find them and out comes Luigi and an ugly firefight ensues, ending with lots of dead Columbians, Italians, and pretty women. Luigi is furious. The Leones are furious. Escobar is furious. This adds heat to an already escalating conflict between the Leones and the Cartel. I always wondered if Luigi would hate the Man for letting those Columbians follow him to his beloved club, but I guess since the Leones already hate the Columbians so much, Luigi wouldn't really care either way just as long as they're dead.

Malibu and the Man sneak out and enjoy a night alone before the Man feels the hard steel of handcuffs around his wrists. Yep, it turns out he's been fucked over again, since Malibu really _is_ an undercover cop, and he's arrested and is now going back to jail.

What happens is that the police eventually tracks them down and informs Malibu that she has no right to get involved in the Escobar case (she's told it's been put under federal jurisdiction). The two of them are handcuffed, but Malibu is set free since she has fulfilled her duty to catch the Man and is let off from getting involved with Escobar. The Man becomes enraged from her sudden betrayal.

**Whoa, okay. So who's "The Handyman"?**

The Handyman is like an upgraded version of the Man. He looks like him, doesn't say a word, just like him, and has an even bigger cache of weapons. Basically, he's like at the Man's status once you've played GTA3 up to the part where you're established in Staunton Island and already working for Donald Love. He's rather rich, has a sniper rifle, an M-16, and even drives that blue Banshee. He doesn't own a tank, though (not yet, anyway).

The Handyman is hired by Escobar to find and murder Malibu (this happens in between the Sex Club 7 incident and the finding out Malibu is a real cop part). So The Handyman meticulously gathers up his tools and leaves. Over the course of his chapters, it follows his point of view as he methodically tracks down Malibu and the Man.

**So who's Tessa Simone? **

It's Malibu's real name. Working undercover as a hooker, she was hired to hunt down and arrest the Man, who was an escaped convict gaining underworld notoriety. I would guess that she would go after 8-Ball next. But it turns out this sexy cop has a hidden agenda, and it is that she has a personal vendetta against Escobar for murdering her family. That part in the beginning where she offers money to the Man to murder Escobar wasn't fabricated by the police. That was her idea. But that plan obviously failed, so she's left sitting in the SWAT van, contemplating her score with Escobar and having flashbacks.

It is at this point of the story Malibu is referred to as Tessa. A former undercover DEA agent, Tessa was working on a case against Escobar and had nearly enough evidence to bring him down before realizing her husband, a corrupted undercover narcotics officer, was a SPANK addict. Her baby son was being neglected and abused as a result. And the SPANK was all coming from Escobar.

Amidst a spiraling of domestic violence and struggles to work out her husband's SPANK addiction and corruption, Tessa eventually finds herself witnessing both her husband and baby son gunned down by Escobar's men. Escobar wasn't too happy with her contributions to the DEA, nor did he like her husband's little dealings with him. She manages to defend herself before the police arrive on the scene and barely manages to live after it, being put in critical condition from being shot multiple times.

Once she wakes up, she finds herself removed from the Escobar case; her apartment trashed from the gunfight; all her paperwork and evidence destroyed; and along with that, her family is gone. And Escobar continues to walk the streets free. With nothing else to lose, she plots Escobar's destruction. She undergoes a transformation, getting all kinds of cosmetic surgery until she hardly resembles the Tessa everyone is familiar with and looks several years younger, totally slutting her body out in the process. She drops all ties with the DEA, focusing on bringing Escobar down herself. Eventually, she is known as Malibu, an upscale hooker working undercover to help police track down various small time criminals.

**Okay, so there's Tessa and the Handyman, so what happens next? **

As Malibu, a.k.a. Tessa, sits in the back of a SWAT truck with her arms crossed, she stares out at the police car that has the Man inside it and exchanges glances with her silent friend. The Man glares back at her with a face that wants to burn her alive.

Furious at the fact that she couldn't kill Escobar, yet content that things are over, Tessa thinks over about what she really did to the Man, who has saved her life a few times already. Tessa then tries to forget about it and instead hears something she didn't want to hear.

Corrupt cops chatter outside of the van around her. She overhears a coded conversation about redistributing a large collection of SPANK confiscated from a large drug bust, and her blood begins to boil. It then turns out that those drugs belong to Escobar, and he is looking to reclaim them by setting up an easy heist through some corrupt cops in the LCPD. As she is hearing this, her badge is in both hands, and they are taut enough to bend it in half. At that moment, the car holding the Man is driving off toward the nearest station.

**Are my questions annoying you?**

Hell fucking yes, they are. I'm switching to another format.

**Conflict of Interest**

Tessa is thrown past that line of controllable restraint and rushes out of the SWAT van and carjacks a nearby taxi. The police are a bit dumbfounded at first, but they are chasing her. In one scene earlier in the story, there is a part where Tessa flashes her badge to stop a car so that the Man can "lawfully confiscate the vehicle" to get a car. I thought it was a bit cute in a GTA sorta way. Anyway, this time, Tessa jacks this taxi the traditional way, by ripping open the car's door and throwing that driver out.

Using the stolen cab, Tessa catches up to the squad car and cuts it off, throwing her door open and exits her car putting a couple holes in the police driver's face. The other cop tries to shoot her, but she gets him before he can even pull the trigger. Once Tessa frees the Man, he socks her across the face. A spittle of blood flows out of her mouth, yet she wipes it away and smiles at him, despite also realizing one of her molars are feeling loose. She deserved it, I'd think.

Tessa convinces him that this time things are as they ought to be and that there are no more lies and deceptions waiting for him. She offers him one final wish: to take her to Escobar safely so she can try killing him herself. His reward? She jangles a set of keys for him that will lead him to a storage somewhere in the docks. Inside that storage will be the money that she showed him in the first chapter. She then locks the keys in her suitcase and keeps the combination, along with the location of the storage from the Man until he fulfills her final wish.

With the police after them once again, (I'd guess it'll be as though they had two stars in the game) the Man drives through the city to reach the docks where Escobar is located at the shipyards. While they are driving through the Red Light District, they meet up with a mysterious stranger standing on a roof of a building with an M-16 clutched in his arms. He is aiming at them too.

**The Handyman (II)**

The taxi gets riddled with holes before flames begin spewing from under its hood. Tessa and the Man leap out of the car and take cover beneath a segment of a building that is jutting out at an angle that obscures themselves from the Handyman's aim. (it's something like the front of a large smut theater where it has that overhead ceiling in the front)

As they try taking steps out from under the building's cover, the Handyman sprays his M-16 at them, taking out innocent bystanders in the process. Earlier in the chapter, the Handyman was only able to afford one clip of the M-16 and that he would have to make it worthwhile. And after running out of ammo for the gun, the Handyman then switches to a sniper rifle.

Tessa and the Man continue to stay under the building's cover, only stepping out to return fire whenever they can. Since the Man lost all of his weapons, he can only fend himself with the pistol he took from the dead cops that Tessa killed earlier. A nearby blonde prostitute that resembles Tessa gets hit with the Handyman's sniper rifle, blowing off her head in the process.

Taking advantage of the time it takes for the Handyman to load the next bullet, Tessa and the Man rush out to the nearest car and jack it, peeling out while making their latest getaway.

Grunting, the Handyman runs down to the street and jumps inside his own car, a blue Banshee, and catches up to them. He manages to veer them off the road to cause them to crash into a building near those four orange cones in Saint Mark's. A gunfight involving submachine guns and pistols ensues. Both sides end up taking cover to exchange more fire. Some cops get involved in the crossfire and end up getting shot in the process. It will only be a matter of time before more of them arrive.

They manage to lose the Handyman for a while as he scours the streets looking for them. Tessa finds a parked police car she can make her escape in and thanks the Man for taking her this far and gives him the keys and the location of the storage. She then gives him a long, deep kiss, probably the first and only real kiss she's ever given him. "You've made me proud, sweetheart. In my eyes, you were never small-time. Now give me some cover and all of that money's yours."

The Handyman finally locates the Man and they face off, maiming themselves with bullets while jacking cars to take each other out. Tessa manages to escape by herself. The Handyman sees this and tries to chase her down with a freshly stolen Landstalker, but the Man appears with a fire truck and T-bones him, crushing that SUV through a lamppost and straight into a wall. Now forced with nothing else to do but kill this pesky escort, the Handyman leaps out of the car wreck and hijacks the fire truck that is being driven by the Man. And he succeeds! They end up in the streets duking it out while cars explode all around them. Even the police can't seem to stop them as they are either shot or run over in the middle of this pandemonium.

**Conflict of Interest (II)**

Meanwhile, Tessa is deliriously making her way to Escobar with eyes brimming with insanity. Clutching on the wheel until her knuckles are white, she smiles when she realizes she is in a police car and radios for backup using her familiarity with police jargon. Even if the precinct is suspicious of the fact that her voice doesn't match with the cop that the car is assigned to, she believes if she can draw enough attention she can somehow use that to her advantage to get on that boat Escobar is on.

Soon enough, police cars do arrive, except they are chasing her instead of backing her up, since they already know it is her. She continues to use the radio anyway, blurting out truths about her life, about how she had a chance against Escobar and now she has another opportunity to end it once and for all. She then spills everything she knows, from the heist she overheard, the corruption, her murdered family, along with the spreading influence that SPANK has over her precinct.

Of course, none of this really affects how the police think, but she has their attention and that is enough for her. Police cars then try to ram her off the road, but they end up spinning out before toppling over towards their fiery doom like all those hell-bent cops which try to stop you in GTA. She crashes through a roadblock of police cars too, before realizing that the FBI is on her tail. Once the looming visage of Escobar's ship appears, she's leaving a trail of chaos behind her.

**The Handyman (III)**

It begins to rain while the Man and the Handyman continue to square off in Saint Mark's. The scene is rather epic, with cars exploding, helicopter searchlights grazing the area, and in middle of it, there are these two men soaked in the street trying to destroy each other with assorted weapons and explosives. It's like a segment out of Spy vs. Spy. When the Man tries to run over the Handyman with a stolen Ambulance truck, the Handyman summons his shotgun and brings the service vehicle down to flames. The Handyman uses the rest of his weapons, tossing grenades and Molotov cocktails until flames are burning up Saint Mark's. The Man dodges most of his attacks and retaliates with whatever he manages to pick up from the Handyman, whether it be Uzis, an AK-47, or even rocks that he picks from the ground. Once there is hardly anything else to shoot one another with, they end up fighting hand to hand till the end.

Eventually, the Man manages to beat the Handyman to the ground and grabs a shotgun. The Man presses the barrel against the Handyman's face, staring him in the eye. They stay in this frozen position while the rain continues to beat down on them, studying each other.

A smile appears on the Handyman's face.

The Man glowers down in disgust. What kind of a twisted fuck would smile after going through all of this, he thinks. He then pulls the trigger, blowing the Handyman's head off. It's a gruesome sight…what's left of the Handyman's face is smeared all over the asphalt. The Man then drives off (to opera music) without knowing what he just did.

You see, when the Handyman smiled, he had an epiphany; and that epiphany was so sudden and abrupt, that all he could do was lay there and smile while the Man held that shotgun down on his face. And the Man will never know what went on in the Handyman's head because he killed him.

The Handyman and the Man are long-lost brothers.

**Conflict of Interest (III)**

Tessa crashes through a barricade of Cartel cruisers with the police behind her. Helicopters swarm the perimeter of the shipping yards, while FBI cars line the ship and try to stop her from reaching Escobar. Seeing the law protect the very man she wants dead makes her even more determined.

Columbians onboard the ship, armed with AKs, riddle the remnants of her police car with holes until it nearly explodes. Tessa guns the car up the loading ramp, screaming as bullets shatter windows and rip the car inside out. She manages to get onto the ship's deck before the car explodes.

Tessa opens the door and leaps from the flaming car, just before it explodes. The momentum throws her against a pile of crates, breaking her bones and nearly killing her. The flaming squad car rolls toward a mass of Columbians and explodes, killing all of them in the vicinity. The burst of flames causes a chain reaction, setting off nearby gas barrels to explode. One explosion near Tessa sends her hurling back against a wall, impaling her with shrapnel, as well as knocking one of her implants out of her chest. The other implant oozes from a gash in her breast and dangles there like a large jellyfish. Even after all of this, she manages to get up and limp her way towards where she thinks Escobar is located. Her briefcase is still held in her bloody hand.

The ship is in flames now, forcing Escobar to evacuate. Police are all over the place, forcing nearby Columbians to give up their weapons as they try to regain control of the situation. Helicopters hover over Tessa as she limps through the ship like a zombie while clutching her suitcase. Snipers onboard the helicopters aim at her while police order her to stop with megaphones blaring and searchlights centering on her. The evening is brimming with police activity.

Just when Tessa is about to drop on the floor and die, she spots Escobar, who is being escorted out by police. Her face is dilapidated by now—blood rushes from nearly every orifice of her crushed face, and one eye is busted so bad, there are only whites left in them. But the remaining bright blue of Hawaiian surf remains set on Escobar from atop that mole on her face. She smiles at this sight, blood gushing from her cut gums and broken teeth as if the sight of Escobar were the last greatest thing left in her life, and she begins to run his direction, suitcase still in hand. The police open fire on her.

Tessa rattles from several bullets punching through her body, gaining enough speed to force herself onto Escobar, taking in his horrid expression while dying that very instant. She manages to throw her bloody arms around his neck while police scramble to keep her away from him. The suitcase in her hand, which has a bomb ready to go off, bumps against Escobar's back as she embraces him.

Her suitcase explodes, killing Escobar and everyone around her. Their bodies fly over the sides of the ship while some of them crawl away from the wreck moaning. Helicopters hovering nearby break away from the huge burst of flames. Escobar's body is incinerated in the blast, as well as his legacy. The ordeal is over.

**Epilogue **

Tessa's story is all over the news. Even Lazlo's talking about it. The Man opens the door to the shed that Tessa told him about and pauses as he sees walls filled with Escobar's pictures, notes, evidence, and various paperwork. There's a bed, a desk, a fridge, an oven—the place is literally a small apartment room without a window. On her desk, beside a bottle of Malibu rum, sits a silver briefcase that the Man rushes to open.

A smile appears over the Man's face. The money was there, all $80,000 that she offered from the first chapter. As the Man closes up the briefcase, he notices a picture on the desk that shows a much different-looking Tessa smiling with a baby in her arms along with a content husband standing beside her. The picture frame is dusty and doesn't look like it's been touched for some time.

He then turns around and walks away into the bright afternoon.


End file.
